


but of all the reasons you've expound of why we can't be together, none are of the heart

by inkwelled



Category: The Greatest Showman (2017)
Genre: Bird Imagery, F/M, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Interracial Relationship, Introspection, Love at First Sight, Married Life, Non-Linear Narrative, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Phillip Carlyle Needs a Hug, Post-Canon, sleepy mornings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-12
Updated: 2018-05-12
Packaged: 2019-05-05 14:51:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14621007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkwelled/pseuds/inkwelled
Summary: The way to win a bird’s heart, he’s found, is not to chase after it but learn to fly like it.





	but of all the reasons you've expound of why we can't be together, none are of the heart

**Author's Note:**

> i'm supposed to be up early to leave for a hiking trip all morning but i just finished watching the greatest showman alone in my room and i'm offended that i've forgotten how much i love these two. 
> 
> title from [reign](https://hellopoetry.com/poem/1080362/reign-quote/) by carsyn smith

“No,” she says, cold, and she flies. There is a hardness in her eyes, a fire in her throat and a restless anger beneath her skin that moves with the gracefulness of a trick. 

His heart is no longer a fragile thing; beaten senseless by the world and his father’s tongue, his parent’s disappointment and the small whiskey bottle that’s empty under his pillow and he’s in love. He has never felt this; this longing, almost _fragility,_ too preoccupied with his name in ink for the city to see and the whispers behind his back. 

An outsider to his own life, he watches as he smashes glasses in a rage, the purse of his mother’s lips and the heartbreak in his closest friend’s eyes. He is a star, so close to exploding that he edges around everyone and everything and every sharp cold of glass against his lips, quick burn of alcohol in his throat to wash down the guilt, brings him closer and closer. 

It is late, and his stomach rolls. The cold air is a welcome rest from the humid disappointment inside and he’s just reveling in it when a man from posters larger than life approaches and holds out his hand. Cautious, he stashes his flask and holds out his own hand. 

Intrigued, he follows the man to a bar he’s never seen before, warped green stools and gleaming black countertop, his own reflection watching closely from the metal of the spouts. It’s there the man offers an olive branch, an opportunity, and the table shakes beneath his feet. 

His hat flips in the air, his fingers dance over keys, the sharp _clink_ of glasses on worn marble and he turns, smiles. 

The alcohol doesn’t burn as bad as it goes down, a familiar friend and fire flies past his face and he trips. Stairs creak underneath his feet, the man’s - _Phineas’_ \- hat on his own head and he smiles wider than he remembers doing so in a long time. 

The red curtain is heavy against his body and he pushes through, hearing the sounds of the other side. He’s never been to a show like this one; encouraging sound and excitement and he’s eager to see. 

Then there’s cotton candy pink, chocolate brown, fall leaves on country days and he freezes. She’s hanging upside-down from a single rod, arms outstretched towards him like she’s a lover instead of a complete stranger and he feels the world dim. 

In that split second, Phillip can hear everything and nothing. The rope creaks, his fingertips brush the brim of an unfamiliar hat and his heartbeat is in his throat, his ears. He swears, when he remembers later in bed, that he could _hear_ the small smile on her face, the blood rushing to her face and he lays awake. 

_Who’s that?_

Later, much later, after a face-to-face that left him overwhelmed and underwhelmed, a trip overseas, a dress and a confession, he lays awake again. It’s becoming a habit, staying up because of the bird with the cotton-candy hair and the nimble skies between her fingertips, courage abounding and never-ceasing and she flies without him. 

As a child, playing all alone in a large yard, he remembers pretending to fly, the tablecloth spilling behind him and mud on his trousers as he’d jumped, time after time, for the rope hanging from the branch of the tree in the woods hidden by the house. His mother hadn’t known of it, only knew that tablecloths went missing but she hadn’t care. 

So when he jumps this time, rope and bird within reach, he takes the chance. 

They collide, solid and warm and alive and in love, and they spin, around and around, around, until her body is one with his and his with hers. They breathe the same air and his eyes search hers. This is the moment he has so longed for and not even scorned looks and disdained voices will echo into a memory he has worked so hard for. 

In the end, it is not his parents that tear them apart. 

It’s her. 

Anne is an enigma, a paradox and miracle all wrapped into one and every day he finds out something new. She enjoys plays, her favorite flower is daisies, she loves to sing but never gets to. One day, he overhears her humming to herself after a show is over, unpinning the pink from her head and her natural curls, unruly, are plastered to her head with sweat. 

Even like this, rumpled and breathless from flying for so long, so far, she’s breathtaking. There’s a spark in her eyes, a light that he only sees when she’s in the air, flying free, a blur of purple and pink and laughter when she sings into the cracked mirror propped against the wall, her wig on the peg for her things. 

Every movement is graceful, from her bare feet against the sawdust-scattered floors to the curve of her arm during practice, when she swings towards the box he had first seen her in. 

He’s always been around the rich, those with too much and those too loud, too grand and larger than life but here, he’s content. He’s found, in these months and days and hours and seconds, that simplicity is beautiful. He no longer wakes to pressed white sheets and a silver platter laden with fruits imported and fresh butter, but rather a small apartment that creaks underneath his feet and whose locks stick. It’s nowhere near perfect, nowhere near the life he once had but he’s smiling wider, laughing louder. 

His flask finds a more permanent - and if not permanent, more stable - home in his suit pocket and then, in the drawer by his bedside that eventually collects dust. One night, when the shadows dance too close and the moon is not enough, he wipes away the time and scowls at the taste. It’s been so long since he’s had just a sip and he can’t do it. 

Beside him, Anne stirs and blinks awake to find her husband sitting up, staring down at something in his hands. When she drapes her head over his shoulder, her curls spilling down his bare chest in the humid summer air, and she spots the glint of the flask in the moonlight, she clicks her tongue. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, eyes fixed on the metal, voice hollow and she combs through the stray hairs at the nape of his neck, hums. 

“Come back to bed.” 

The next morning, he will wake to a life he’s made his own that doesn’t include three-piece suits and tinkling bells on bedsides but he will wake to his wife, her curls on their pillow and her legs around his and he will smile. 

He knows the sunshine will peek through the curtains and she will snort, roll over when he touches her shoulder. Their sheets are not patterned with floral and stiff with disuse but rumpled and soft to the touch and they have them pressed every week, when money permits. 

In the morning, he will toast bread and stir eggs in their iron pan, listening to the dripping of the percolator and she will emerge, soft and rounded with sleep. In the morning, they’ll dress slowly, sharing kisses, and they will be greeted by their friends when they arrive with the morning rush. She will wrap her hands, fabric fluttering behind her like the wings he can so clearly see her having, and she takes off.

The way to win a bird’s heart, he’s found, is not to chase after it but learn to fly like it.

**Author's Note:**

> this is nothing but pure fluff but it's what they deserve
> 
> feel free to come yell with (re: at) me on my [tumblr](http://nymphrea.tumblr.com/) and/or [my twitter](https://twitter.com/nymphrva). see you later!


End file.
